Heartless
by lemonpiefirefly
Summary: They'd always reached for a label to apply to Sherlock. Sociopath, they said. They were about to get what they wished for. AU set after "The Great Game" in the BBC series Sherlock. Warning implied character death, language. Thanks jackwabbit for beta.
1. Sociopath

Author's note: BBC Sherlock, AU taking place after "the Great Game". Holmes/ Watson/ Moriarty (Gen)  
>Currently 2 chapters, but there is the possibility of more, so I left it marked "in progress", just in case.<p>

Warnings: Implied character death, Dark!Sherlock, language.

Effusive and sincere thanks to my friend jackwabbit for Very Important Beta on this story.  
>Thanks, cap, for starting me on this path and continuing to walk with me down Fandom Enabler Lane.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>HEARTLESS<strong>

They called him a sociopath. So much so that he'd eventually adopted the word and started tossing it out as part of his appellation, just to cut to the chase.

But labels rarely told the whole story. That word, sociopath, was so narrow - and so inappropriate. It was so much more aptly applied to those men who just wanted to watch the world burn. But that wasn't him - never him.

He preferred order. He had his own moral code; he expected the world to comply with it, and pointed the law toward those who didn't. Originally it was enough that this exercise in structure kept the boredom at bay. The odious, mind-numbing tedium that stretched his mind taut, like a guitar string so strained it could hardly make a sound. The mind games and observational abilities that shaped the course of his life were born of this need for distraction. These acts of mental masturbation would culminate in moments of brief release from the stretches of horrible, immobilizing monotony that lie in between.

But suddenly, there was John. The need for this cerebral self-gratification started to lessen as he found approval and affirmation in the stalwart and hardy doctor. A desire for order and justice was something they had been able to share, and he had finally found understanding in this man. His abilities took on a new importance to him because they pleased John.

Now that they had taken John away - now that they had stolen the one thing that had ever given back; the one thing that had ever mattered; the one thing that had ever tried to please him for the joy of it all and not as a means to getting something in return...

Now they would know the true meaning of the label they so glibly applied to him.

_Sociopath._

Now they would see the small kernel of truth unmasked and grown malignant from succor given at the teat of this final misdeed. They had taken John. His body lay twisted and broken and surely dead somewhere in the blackness below. Beyond help. Beyond him forever.

He reached deep within his mind and felt the embers of his hate spark, the flames writhing like living things burning his very core.

_Yes, as fucking well predicted, you lilting little prick; burning the heart right out of me._

His steely gaze smoldered and his lip curled in a faint, utterly feral smile as he felt the gears slide into place to fit his new reality.

_You miscalculated, you insufferable ass. You didn't destroy _me. _You only burnt my _heart_. You really, really shouldn't have stopped there._

If these men wanted to watch the world burn, he would not disappoint_._


	2. Heartbreak

"_**John!"**_

From far down the dark, jagged rock shaft, he'd heard his name chasing after him, a broken panic in his friend's voice.

"_John!_"

He stopped suddenly with a jarring thud, impossibly far down, and his world closed in with an eclipsing darkness.

A strangled sob reached him from high above; the sound of despair. He'd heard it before, in Afghanistan; the utter devastation of losing a comrade-in-arms. He wanted to cry out, to say he was still alive, though for how long was another question altogether. Already, his thoughts were slowing and a steady stream of blood was pouring down his face. He tried to form the words, but there was simply no breath left in his body. He sent a jumble of thoughts up to the ledge high above, willing his friend to know everything.

_Remember me. Remember to eat. You could not have been prepared for this. This was not your fault. Remember I loved you, and use that when you don't love yourself._

Suddenly, the walls of the narrow crevasse rang with a blood-chilling, utterly phantasmagoric, inhuman cry. It was the lone howl of a wolf on a moor and the scream of a mortally wounded jungle cat mixed in one horrific sound. The echoes continued to reverberate through the abyss and shudder through his chest, shredding his insides and threatening to finally still his stuttering heart.

With his last conscious thoughts, he mourned for his friend. He knew what animal had made that sound. He'd always suspected its existence, and now it was not only here, it was loose. He should feel pity for the prey, really. But he didn't have the strength. A most unbecoming smile tugged at his lips as he lapsed fully out of conscious thought.

_You wanted his heart. Now look upon its absence, you smug shit.  
>Look upon Hell, and pray that God may have mercy on your soul.<em>


End file.
